


Bedtime Story

by foxtrot77



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blue Team Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 20:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13151805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77
Summary: Tucker's read somewhere that the record for staying awake is 264 hours, almost 11 days. Whatever the record is, with coffee and sheer force of will, he's pretty sure Wash is halfway to reaching that 11-day record.The guy just won't go the fuck to sleep.





	Bedtime Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [illumynare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/illumynare/gifts).



> Written for the Red vs Blue Secret Santa for illumynare! I wanted to get this out much sooner, thank you so much for your patience and I hope you enjoy it!

I

 

Tucker’s read somewhere that the record for staying awake is 264 hours—almost 11 days. Of course, this was a civilian, so Tucker has no idea how long super soldiers can go without sleep. He knows it exists, the technology—aka, the drugs—that keeps soldiers awake and alert 24/7, but he’s never seen it in action, and no one around Chorus has either.

Which is great, because Tucker is pretty sure that Wash would be all over that shit. With coffee and sheer force of will, the guy is halfway to reaching the 11-day record already. He just won’t go to fucking bed.

It’s not for lack of trying—on Tucker and the others’ parts.

“You know what always helps me fall asleep?” Caboose asked yesterday.

“What’s that, Caboose?” Wash didn’t look up from his datapad, but the tips of his ears got a little red.

“A bedtime story,” Caboose declared.

“Or you could just listen to Simmons read you the Red Team manual,” Grif suggested through a mouthful of oatmeal.

“Grif, we’re trying to figure out how to help Agent Washington _sleep_ ,” Simmons said, “Not ways to keep him awake.”

Grif just raised an eyebrow and he and Tucker exchanged a look.

“I’m fine,” Wash said, looking up at last. “I get plenty of sleep.”

“ _Pff_ , yeah right!” Tucker snorted. “When I went to bed last night, you were still drinking coffee!”

“It helps with my, uh, headaches,” Wash said, dropping his eyes back to his datapad.

“Maybe you have headaches because you _never sleep_ ,” Tucker pointed out.

“Yes, I do,” Wash retorted. “Can we just drop it, please?”

“Sure, fine, whatever,” Tucker said, turning his attention back to his breakfast. Anxiety churning in his gut, he found himself less enthusiastic about ingesting more of the already unappetizing gray mush that passed as oatmeal.

Wash reached over, grabbed his coffee, and took a sip. Face contorting into a grimace, he looked up at Tucker.

“Did you put decaf in this?” he asked.

Holy fuck, that was fast.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude,” Tucker said.

Rising from the table, Wash grabbed his datapad and his coffee before calmly walking to the sink, where he dumped the still-steaming liquid down the drain. After filling his mug with regular coffee, he strode out of the dining hall.

“Fuck dammit,” Tucker mumbled.

Suddenly fascinated with the food on their trays, the rest of the table went silent, save for Caboose, who was listing off his favorite bedtime stories.

 

 

Ever since the half-caff incident, Wash has been avoiding Tucker as if being in the same room with him for too long will make him drowsy.

Tucker doesn’t even see him in Blue Team’s shared room anymore, not since Tucker got out of the infirmary for the stab wound in his gut, anyway. And he’s got a sneaking suspicion it’s been longer than five days. If it was anyone else, Tucker would probably assume they were just going to bed late and waking up early. But this isn’t anyone else. This is Agent-Sleep-Is-For-Squares-Washington. Tucker knows full well Wash hasn’t been sleeping in their room.

If he’s been sleeping at all.

He only catches glimpses of the ex-Freelancer, and when he does, Wash is wearing his helmet, but Tucker doesn’t need to see his face to know the circles under the guy’s eyes are getting darker. Tucker is pretty sure that after a certain amount of days without sleep your organs start shutting down or something.

What if—

_Thwack!_

There’s a flash of white light and stars appear before Tucker’s eyes as he hits the ground, head smacking down on the floor. It’s when he’s flat on his back, wondering what the fuck just happened, that the pain registers. He hisses, reaches up and massages his aching jaw.

“The fuck?”

“Oh, shit!” Palomo’s voice. “You okay, Captain Tucker?”

“Fucking no!” Tucker snaps, pushing himself into a seated position. “What the hell, Palomo?”

Palomo is standing over him, wide-eyed, sparring stick clutched in his hand. Several more heads pop into view and Tucker remembers why he’s here. Sparring. He’s supposed to be training his squad, but he’s so freaking anxious he let Palomo— _Palomo_ —knock him down.

“Sorry, man,” Palomo apologizes, “I didn’t mean to hit your face, I thought you’d block it.”

Fair enough. With a groan, Tucker rises to his feet, only to sway a little as the world around him spins.

Damn, the kid got him good.

“Are you all right, Captain Tucker?” one of his squad members asks.

Doing his best to focus on his teammate, it takes Tucker a few seconds to figure out who’s talking.

“’M fine, Bennett,” Tucker says, “Jus’ need a sec.”

He is, of course, not fine.

Before he can take a step, he almost loses his balance again, but someone grabs onto him to steady him.

“Fucking kidding me?” Tucker asks no one in particular. Of all the stupid—he’s going to kill Palomo for… shit, what’s he mad at Palomo for again? Oh, yeah, “You fuck—you hit me Palomo!”

“Yeah, we established that,” someone says. “Guys, do you think we should bring him to Grey?”

“Over my dead body,” Tucker growls, yanking his arm out of his teammate’s grasp. He’s fine, he just needs to shake it off. He just got _stabbed_ in the gut for Christ’s sake, a small bop to the jaw is nothing.

Wait. Why does the back of his head hurt again?

Tucker feels the floor beneath him move, why the hell does it keep doing that?

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Palomo cries. There’s a clatter as he drops the sparring stick, and grabs Tucker by the shoulders to hold him up. “Shit, I think he’s got a concussion.”

“’Llshit,” Tucker protests. But he can hardly get the word out, and he’s beginning to think Palomo and Palomo—shit, there’s two of them—are right.

“What’s going on here?” Tucker hears a familiar voice demand. His squad members’ heads swivel around in unison, and Tucker is surprised to see Wash standing there. He looks a little blurry.

Tucker blinks hard, uses all his energy to focus on Wash, who’s pulled his helmet off by now. His brows furrow in confusion and then shoot up as he notices Tucker.

Rushing forward, he asks, “What happened?”

“Palomo hit me,” Tucker whines.

“He what?” Wash shoots a glare at Palomo, who squeaks and takes a step back.

“I—it was an accident! Honest!” he babbles. “We were sparring, and I swung at him and I thought he would block but he just, like, stood there!”

“You left out the part where you smacked him in the jaw and he fell backwards and hit his _head_ ,” Bennett adds.

“Snitch,” Tucker growls.

“I—what?” Bennett looks at him, confused.

Tucker just waves his hand at his teammate. He doesn’t have the energy to explain to Bennett why he didn’t want Wash to know. Didn’t want to worry him. Already so worried, he never sleeps, doesn’t need more to worry about.

“Wash,” Tucker says, remembering something. “Wash, what if your organs die?”

Wash blinks.

“My organs _what_?”

“Die, you know, bleehhh.” Tucker makes a face. “Die.”

“Tucker,” Wash says, voice softening, “You’re not making any sense, let’s get you to the infirmary.”

“No no no, ‘m fine, really,” Tucker insists. He doesn’t need to go to the goddamn infirmary. He just got out.

“Listen, you probably have a concussion, we need to at least have Dr. Grey check you out,” Wash replies.

“Bow chicka bow wow,” Tucker giggles.

“All right,” Wash sighs, “Let’s go.”

Tucker feels a wave of nausea hit him as Wash grabs him around the waist and starts half carrying, half dragging Tucker out of the training hall. When it’s just the two of them, Tucker stops stumbling along and refuses to move.

“Tucker.” Wash sounds tired. “Come on, don’t make me get Caboose to carry you.”

Tucker almost complies at this threat, but holds his ground.

“Le’s make a deal,” he slurs. Shakes his head. “Let’s. Make a deal.”

“A deal.”

“Yeah.” Tucker turns to look Wash directly where he thinks his eyes should be. It’s hard to tell, he’s so fucking dizzy. “I go to the infirmary, you take a… a _goddamn_ nap.”

“I don’t need a nap, Tucker,” Wash huffs.

“Yeah, and there are definitely not two of you standing in front of me right now,” Tucker retorts. Fuck his head hurts.

“Well… there aren’t,” Wash says.

“Hello,” Caboose chirps, coming up behind the ex-Freelancer.

Wash moves away from Tucker, spins around, and pulls out a knife in one fluid movement. Tucker would say it was badass if it didn’t both prove his point that Wash isn’t okay and make him even dizzier.

Caboose, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch.

“Sorry, I have been practicing being sneaky,” Caboose says. “I promise to make sure you know I am behind you next time, Agent Washington.”

Wash lets out a _whoosh_ of air. He still looks ready to pounce, but he sheathes his knife and looks up at Caboose.

“It’s all right, buddy,” he says.

Caboose tilts his head to look over Wash’s shoulder at Tucker. Tucker gives him a wink, and Caboose frowns. He leans closer to Wash.

“Something is wrong with Tucker,” he whispers loudly.

“Yeah, he has a concussion,” Wash says. “Can you help me get him to the infirmary?”

“Okay!”

Before Tucker can protest, Caboose bounds towards him and scoops him up. Tucker can’t decide between demanding Caboose put him down or throwing up, so he decides to hold as still as possible and do neither of those things.

“Careful, Caboose!” Wash cautions.

“Okay,” Caboose whispers.

As the three of them start down the hall again, Wash says, “You don’t have to carry him, Caboose, I can help if you need a break.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Caboose says. “I am pretty good at lifting things.”

“You flipped a _Warthog_ ,” Tucker mumbles. “You’re pretty _great_ at lifting things. You’re… ah, amazing.”

“Yeah, um, something is definitely wrong with Tucker,” Caboose says.

Wash chuckles. Tucker doesn’t get the joke, but he has a feeling they’re making fun of him. He opens his mouth to protest but lets out a sigh instead.

“Fuckers,” he mutters.

 

 

II

 

_I go to the infirmary, you take a goddamn nap._

Wash, standing off to the side as Grey pokes and prods at Tucker, wants to kick himself for being so careless. The whole point of not sleeping in Blue Team’s room was to avoid that conversation. Is he really that obvious?

He can function just fine on little to no sleep. He can. But the problem with living in such close quarters with people, particularly people who have spent enough time with him, is that it’s much more difficult to hide the fact he isn’t _using_ those quarters. And he hasn’t been using them because he doesn’t want anyone to worry. Doesn’t want to wake anyone up.

Wash thought the nightmares were getting better. There were even some nights he didn’t dream at all. He was even beginning to feel somewhat rested in the morning. He thought he was finally starting to move on. He thought.

Then he was nearly killed when Locus took him, Sarge, Donut, and Lopez captive, and the sedative Grey used sent him spiraling. They only got worse after Felix stabbed Tucker and the teal soldier almost died. More often than not, Wash wakes up from his nightmares standing in the middle of the room, knife in hand, with no idea how he got there or how long he’s been there.

Wash can’t trust himself not to hurt Tucker or Caboose. So, he decided to stop sleeping in Blue Team’s room. Indeed, he’s slept as little as humanly possible for the past week. He doesn’t think he’s slept more than five or six hours the past four or five days.

_Wash, what if your organs die?_

And Tucker makes fun of _him_ for being melodramatic. Wash’s organs aren’t going to shut down, he’s getting plenty of sleep. Wash sighs. Okay, maybe not plenty, but _enough_. Besides, less sleep means fewer nightmares.

“Captain Tucker!” Grey’s frustrated exclamation pulls Wash out of his mind in time to see Tucker shove the doctor out of the way and make for the door.

Fortunately, he doesn’t make it very far before Wash springs forward and practically lifts him back onto the hospital bed. Tucker gives a half-hearted kick to Wash’s shin, then lets out a cry as his foot, bare from sparring, connects with Wash’s power armor.

“Fuckin’ ow!” Tucker snaps, shooting an accusatory glare at Wash.

“Power armor one, Tucker zero,” is all Wash says.

“I’m sure this comes as no surprise to you, but Captain Tucker has a concussion,” Grey tells him. “I’m going to keep him here for the rest of the day and overnight, just to be safe.”

Wash nods. Frowning, he looks down at the bruise that’s formed on Tucker’s jaw.

How did Palomo get the jump on Tucker? Tucker’s improved tenfold since he’s started working with Carolina on sword fighting. Not to mention he and Wash spar all the time, and the only time Wash has come remotely close to hitting Tucker on the head is the morning before the teal soldier tried to put decaf coffee in his mug.

Wash feels his heart plummet.

Was Tucker worrying about him even then?

“Agent Washington?”

Wash startles. Grey is looking up at him over her glasses, and Wash wonders how long she’s been waiting for him to realize she’s talking to him.

“Sorry,” Wash apologizes. “What did you say?”

“I said you can go back to your duties,” Grey says. “Captain Caboose here has agreed to stay here and keep Captain Tucker company.”

“Oh, uh.” Caboose? “I can stay as well. The others will understand.”

Dr. Grey chuckles and shakes her head.

“Agent Washington, I need someone here to stay _awake_ with Tucker for quite a few hours, and”— Grey crosses her arms— “I’m afraid that is the exact opposite of what you need.”

“I can stay awake, Dr. Grey,” Wash says, face going hot.

“It’s not a matter of _can,_ Agent Washington, it’s a matter of _should._ ” Grey raises an eyebrow and locks eyes with him as though she’s challenging him to a staring contest.

Wash looks away first.

“’M not staying ‘nless Wash takes a fucking. _Nap_ ,” Tucker declares. He tries to stand up again, but Wash shoves the stubborn man back onto the bed.

“Captain Tucker,” he says, “If I sit here with you and… nap, will you _please_ stay? You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“’M already hurt, idiot,” Tucker mumbles, but he lays down without further protest. It only takes a minute or two before Tucker drifts off to sleep, snoring softly.

Wash looks at Grey, who gives him a stern look.

“Please try and sleep, Agent Washington,” is all she says before stalking out of the room.

Wash pulls a chair up beside Tucker’s bed with no intention of going to sleep. Caboose slides a chair across the room and situates it on the other side of Tucker’s bed. He sits, hands in his lap, and shoots a look at Wash through his hair.

“What is it, Caboose?” Wash asks.

“You are not going to be very comfortable,” Caboose says.

“What do you mean?”

“I always wear pajamas when I go to bed,” Caboose goes on. “The armor isn’t very comfy. And once I forgot to take it off when I went to sleep and broke the bed.”

“I’m not going to break anything, Caboose,” Wash tries to reassure him. “And I’m not going to sleep.”

“Ah—psh, that’s just silly,” Caboose huffs, crossing his arms. “You told Tucker you would take a nap, and the doctor lady told you to sleep. And you should always listen to your doctors.”

“Caboose, I—”

“And lying is bad, Agent Washington,” Caboose cuts him off. “If you do not sleep, you will be lying to Tucker, and that isn’t very nice.”

Wash doesn’t have anything to say to that. He just sits there, speechless, as Caboose smiles at him confidently. Of all the—if you asked Wash even a few months ago what his weaknesses were, he never would have been able to guess that Michael J Caboose’s trusting smile would do him in.

“All right, buddy,” Wash sighs. “I’ll try and sleep, okay?”

“Okay.”

Wash reaches up to pull his helmet off, but grabs onto his hair instead. The training hall. He left his helmet in the training hall. He can use it as an excuse to leave, tell Caboose he’ll just go take a nap in their room—

“Oh, good!” Caboose chimes. “It’s much easier to sleep without your helmet.”

Caboose isn’t going to let him leave, is he?

He tries to back out of this… nap… one more time.

“Caboose,” Wash starts, then stops. Hesitant. Wonders how much he should say, and how to say it. “Caboose, sometimes when I sleep, I have bad dreams.”

He pauses. Caboose nods at him.

“Sometimes,” Wash continues, “when I wake up from the bad dreams, I—I don’t mean to, but sometimes I wake up and I try to fight my dream, even though it isn’t real.”

“It’s okay, Agent Washington,” Caboose says. “Sometimes I think I hear O’Malley, but I know it can’t be him because you erased him. Don’t worry, if you wake up and don’t remember who we are, I will remind you. Like I reminded Church!”

Wash feels that familiar guilt that comes with remembering everything Project Freelancer—everything _he_ —made the Reds and Blues go through. He doesn’t want to make them go through even more, doesn’t want to wake up from a dream one morning to find he’s actually shot someone in his room.

“I can tell you a bedtime story,” Caboose offers.

“No thank you, Caboose,” Wash says.

Trapped by his promise, Wash leans forward and lays his head down on the bed. He wishes he could fall asleep and then wake up, refreshed, several hours later. He’s forgotten what that feels like, can’t remember the last time he slept more than three hours at a time.

Closing his eyes, he’s hoping he’ll be able to sleep for at least two.

But an hour passes, and, even though his eyes are heavy, and every inch of his body is exhausted, Wash still can’t seem to find sleep.

He sits up with a sigh.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to tell you a bedtime story?” Caboose asks, furrowing his brow in concern.

“Why not?” Wash sighs.

Caboose’s eyes light up and he grins, leaning forward.

“Okay! Once upon a time there were two very best friends…”

Wash lays his head back down on Tucker’s hospital bed, letting Caboose’s voice flow through them. He tries for a few minutes to keep up with what’s going on, but by the time Caboose regaling him tales of the great Pirate Captain Sarge, Wash is utterly lost.

But for some reason, it’s working. Wash can feel himself drifting off into sleep. As Caboose’s voice fades, Wash feels a brief moment of content.

Because even if he only sleeps for twenty minutes, he knows when he wakes up, he’ll wake up among friends.

 


End file.
